Of Tess'tubes And Superman
by Meowbowwow
Summary: An old John Watson tells his grandkids the story where Locky (4) and John (5) were best friends as kids, sharing talks of science and superheroes. Split over three timelines that run simultaneously. Fluff/Retirementlock/Kidlock and a bit of angst.
1. Chapter 1

"What's this, Locky?"  
"It is a bee, John."  
"Oh, I know what a bee is. What's the glass thing?"  
"Oh, this! This is a _tess' tube_. Your father gave it to me."  
"Why do you have the bee in the _tessube_?"  
"Not _tessube_, John. It is called a _tess' tube_. It is for storing science stuff. And look, I made this cap from my broken pirate head. I can use it to cover the tess' tube. Isn't it great?" John looked from Sherlock to the dead bee floating in the muddy water inside the test tube, unable to decide on what he wanted to ask next. But Sherlock was now in his element and John knew that asking questions was useless.

None of Sherlock's mummy's friends and their children liked Sherlock or his experiments. They didn't even like pirates, so they were obviously fools. Lucy, the governess had explicitly told him not to use words like 'stupid' or 'idiot'. However, he had heard his father call someone a 'fool' and obviously, Lucy had not mentioned that word and his father sounded pretty cross when he said it, so Sherlock had incorporated that word in his vocabulary. He now knew 109 words and 27 of them were _adictives_, although he didn't know what they were and Myc was being a prat, as usual, so Sherlock finally decided that they were words that people used a lot and got addicted to. The word 'fool' was nice and he wouldn't mind getting addicted to it, Sherlock thought.

John's father was a General Practitioner and the family physician of the Holmes'. Sherlock really liked him because he brought interesting things like test tubes and also used big medical words that Sherlock failed to even pronounce. He was obviously very intelligent in Sherlock's opinion and Sherlock had already told John and anyone who would listen that he wanted to be like Dr Watson when he grew up, do many experiments, learn big words and drink coffee with rum. Sherlock was 4 but he could already write all the alphabets (he sometimes cheated for E and F because he got confused about which is which but that was a secret between him and Lucy).

It was John's 5th birthday and all the kids from the neighbourhood had been invited. Sherlock knew none of them but John was his best friend and when Myc and Mummy insisted that hanging out with John was not right, his father gave him one look that silenced everyone. He also asked his friend with the weird foreign accent to bring the best superman costume for John (and a pirate one for Sherlock), so that Sherlock could gift it to his best friend on his birthday. Sherlock stayed up the entire night, wrapping the gift properly and copying the birthday message written by Lucy in his own hand. He made John's J like a pirate's hooked hand and felt extremely proud.

When the said night arrived, Sherlock's mother dressed him up in a tiny suit with a bowtie that he wore for her boring parties with her boring guests. Lucy put something in his hair that made them less tangled and smoother (_but Lucy, John says he likes my tangly hair!_), Mr Holmes then drove Lucy and Sherlock to the Watson's house.

John didn't live in a large mansion like Sherlock and he didn't have orchards and horses like them either. His house was small, like those little perfect things the other kids used to draw, with a proper fence and a chimney. It looked straight out of the picture books Sherlock read every night before sleeping. He loved it! And the best part was, John had his own room. And there wasn't even a governess with whom he had to share the room, he had it all to himself and it was the perfect size, unlike Sherlock's. Plus, he had all sorts of pirates and superhero stickers on his wardrobe and walls whereas Sherlock's room only had framed paintings that looked straight out of the horror movies Myc watched (_to feel grown up, Sherlock was sure_). And his room was large, so large that the shadows looked scary at night and Sherlock had to wake Lucy if he ever wanted to use the toilet.

"Hey, Locky!" John waved at Sherlock from the other side of the room. He was wearing a deep blue jumper with white maple leaf patterns, the arms of which were a bit longer and John's small hands were completely covered by it. As he waved Sherlock over, his hand disappeared inside the jumper and he made a face. He was bent over a small pile of gifts and was counting them, John was better at counting than Sherlock, he was also older but Sherlock knew much more than him in science. Moreover, John was the one person Sherlock didn't actually mind being second best to (he hated numbers, anyways). Lucy went on to chat with John's mother and other parents while Sherlock straightened his bowtie (his father and Mycroft always did that and he figured that's what grown-ups did) and approached John, hugging the gift. His was easily the biggest gift John had received so far and his blue eyes instantly lit up when he saw the pretty package.

"Happy B'day, John. Open it!"  
"Mum said I can't open these now. What is it?" he whispered, looking around to make sure his Mum wasn't near because then she would fret about manners and what not.  
"It's a _supprise_, John. Don't spoil it." Sherlock pushed the wrapped package in John's hand and gave him one of his dazzling smiles.  
"Okay, thank you. What happened to your hair?" John mumbled as he felt the lumpy package with his hands, trying to guess what it held.  
"I don' know. Lucy put something sticky in it. I told her not to, I told her that you liked it like that and since this was your birthday, we should all do as you like but she just laughed and put some on anyways," Sherlock scowled.  
"I can fix it, wait," John tucked the package under his arm and started running his hands through Sherlock's thick curly hair. And then he shook them hard and wiped the sticky thing on his trousers as Sherlock's hair went back to their normal awry self. Sherlock smiled, John always knew how to fix things, maybe he could be a plumber when he grew up. That was his superpower (even though he insisted it was shooting darts perfectly).  
"You look like that scientist, _Einsting_!" John knew how much Sherlock loved _Einsting_ and he liked it when Sherlock's eyes crinkled around the corners when he was called that. And they did now.

"Come, let's wait up in my room. Mum will call us when it's time." John's room was pretty neat and he had purple sheets on and purple was Sherlock's favourite colour, so the room seemed even better than Sherlock imagined. As they sat huddled on the bed and played with the toy snake, Sherlock told John about how his experiment with the bee was going pretty well. After a few minutes, John's mother called them down.

John cut the cake and everyone sang Happy Birthday (Sherlock did not, he had already wished John and he saw no point in saying the same thing over and over again, he did hate repeating, not to mention singing in that _ghas'ly_ tone). As it got late and John's other friends pulled him away, Sherlock sat alone near the fire and finished his juice. But when John didn't return after many minutes, he got bored and decided to go look for him (sometimes his sister Harry pulled pranks on him and Sherlock didn't want her to make John cry on his b'day). He tried the kitchen but John wasn't there, he then went into his room and saw that John was sitting on his mother's lap as Harry sniggered. He was crying.

"John?" They all looked towards him and Mrs Watson gave Sherlock a small smile. "I'll leave you two to talk then. Harry, help me clear the kitchen," saying which she left them alone in the room.  
"What happened, John. Did Harry pull your hair again?" Sherlock mumbled as soon as they were alone, wiping John's tears with the napkin that was in his jacket pocket.  
"No. Locky, we are leaving tomorrow for London. Dad is going to start a clinic with my uncle and we would be staying with them. They didn't tell me earlier because they didn't want to ruin my b'day," John started crying again. Sherlock didn't know what to say. He thought for a while and had an idea.  
"Maybe you could stay with us. My room is so big, we could share the bed," he said in a small voice. His father would agree but Myc and mummy would be a problem.  
"That is what I told my mother but she said that I cannot."

Sherlock did not have any more ideas. So, he put his hands around John's shoulder and let him cry, trying very hard not to cry himself. "I am going to miss you, John" he wasn't sure he had said it out loud, so he looked away from John, wiping his eyes on his jacket.

"I am going to miss you too, Locky. I am going to learn writing quickly and then I'll write you letters," John said, blowing his nose in Sherlock's napkin. Then Lucy came up and told them both that it was time to go. Stuck by a sudden idea, John jumped off the bed and asked Sherlock to wait for a moment. He ran into his dad's room, looking around for the thing that Sherlock liked a lot. His dad wouldn't mind, he liked Sherlock very much. He found the skull, Billy, behind the wedding picture of his mum and dad and retrieved it quickly. It was a little dusty, so he wiped it on his jumper and quickly ran down the porch.

"This is for you, Locky, because I won't be here for your birthday, this is a gift," saying which he hugged Sherlock and gave him a small peck on his cheek. The goodbyes were quick and then Sherlock drove away.

Neither of them could sleep that night, Sherlock stayed awake and hugged his skull close. Lucy had helped him smuggle it inside the house because his mother would not have approved. The next day, John went away. Mr Watson called Sherlock's father before he left and gave his love to Sherlock.

After three days, Sherlock's bee looked just the same. The experiment had been a failure. And so Sherlock cried, for his experiment, for not having John to share it with and for everything else. He promised himself that he would never make another friend. He and Billy were enough for each other, they didn't need other people. He cried because Myc laughed when he saw him cry. He cried because he had no one to tell about his failed experiment. He cried because people were stupid and teased him. And he cried when no letters arrived. He cried because he was the loneliest boy in the world. But after a week, he stopped crying because he knew that caring was not an advantage and so, he never cared anymore.

**Note: Thanks a lot for reading, if you find any errors and typos, please let me know. There might be a sequel to this, I do have something fluffy in mind, I don't know if I will write it or not.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Is this kid _Locky_ actually Granddad when he was little?"  
"And is this John you, grandpa?"

John wiped his glasses as Arnold and Lily stifled a yawn. It was late and he had been coaxed by his grand kids to read them a story. Every story book in the house had been read a hundred times already and Arnold had almost consumed all of Sherlock's medical books too (John suspected Sherlock's involvement in it but didn't investigate). Also, Arnold, who had taken towards his Granddad in curiosity and mental acumen had also inherited his terrible intolerance towards boredom.

"_Maybe_…What do you think, Arnold?" John smiled at the little boy with a power-rangers night suit on.  
"Well, I'd like to listen to more data before I form my conclusions," said the seven year old with an impeccable pronunciation. John brushed his sandy hair off his forehead, he had his mother's features but the Holmes eyes, the steel grey that shimmered green in evenings but seemed tungsten under the sun. Lily, on the other hand, had jet black curly hair that fell up to her shoulder and were pulled back with a hair band. She was younger of the two and had almond green eyes of her mother, Mary. She had sniffled a little when John had come to the crying part.

"But grandpa, Sherlock was wrong, wasn't he? It's good to make friends. He should talk to more people, they are wonderful!" She drew her stuffed bunny closer as she sank under the covers and peered from under there.

"Oh no Lily, he was right. People are tedious. They don't know anything and…they hate people who do." Arnold's voice was haughty but there was a hint of bitterness there, a little sadness. John kissed him on the cheek and said, "Then people don't know what they are missing. And well, Sherlock did eventually meet people, made a few other friends too, people who cared about him and liked him for what he was. Isn't that what friendship is?"

The kids looked around as John sipped some water and he could tell exactly what they were thinking. Arnold was looking at the line of ants crawling up the side of the walls and disappearing in a hole at the corner, his eyes followed the movement of an ant throughout its entire journey. And Lily, well, she was thinking about her friends from school. She missed them a lot, but they had all gone to holidays with their parents and she couldn't meet them.

"Tell us more, grandpa!" Arnold said, breaking into John's thoughts. The kids did look wide awake, though they had yawned quite a lot during the narration.  
"Stay here, I'll come back. If you're awake, I will tell you the rest of it, okay?" saying which John got up and checked the time. It was two minutes to twelve; Sherlock must still be busy because no sounds could be heard from his room. He walked down and saw that the detective was deep in concentration, adjusting the slide of the microscope on the kitchen table.

He crept behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, burying his nose in the barely greying mop of curly hair just above his collar.

"All yours in a minute, John," Sherlock muttered, not taking his eyes off the slide.  
"Are you ever going to grey, I envy you," John mumbled, planting a small kiss on the shell of his ear.  
"You have enough grey hair for both of us, I guess," Sherlock grinned, carefully setting the microscope aside and turning around.

"Happy Birthday, John," he kissed him, long fingers ghosting around John's jaw, the overpowering smell of Sherlock, heady and intoxicating. Even after 30 years of being together, John still felt his heart flutter as a hand cupped the back of his head and a tongue coaxed his mouth open, the smile never leaving those lips as they covered John's completely.

"Still so claiming…" John whispered against his mouth, letting Sherlock guide him to the sofa and pull his smaller form over his lap. Sherlock explored his mouth, it was a ritual for him, a sort of meditation, comfort in knowing that he knew something so well that he could wake up and recite it in half sleep, that worlds could come tumbling down in seconds or eternities but this is something he would never forget. The feel of John's moist lips against his own chapped ones, smell of tea in their breaths and oranges in John's hair, a steady rhythm of his pulse under his thumb, fluttering stronger than usual. His John, Sherlock sighed as he tucked his doctor under his chin, close to himself, his hands wrapping out of habit around the waist, sneaking under the jumper as John giggled.  
"There are kids in the other room, Sherlock," he said and pushed the hand of the grumbling detective away.

"Arnold already knows everything about sex, John," he sighed in John's hair, thinking of ways to pin John on the couch.  
"WHAT!" John looked up so fast that he cricked his neck and bumped his head against Sherlock's jaw.  
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, rubbing the jaw with his thumb and his own neck with his other hand. Sherlock found this to be a perfect opportunity to steal another kiss, only getting the corner of John's mouth this time but darting his tongue out anyway.

"Hmm, jam. You aren't allowed jam, John." He said, continuing to lick and hum as John massaged his neck and made a small noise of discomfort.  
"I just had a bite of the jam sandwich." Sherlock grinned at being caught and made to get up.

"I am going to check up on the kids. Clean up the kitchen and we can go to bed, okay?" He planted a small kiss on the top of the curly crazy head brimming with thoughts he still couldn't fathom and as Sherlock tried to pull him back on the couch, he smacked his hand and walked away, laughing at the mock defeated face Sherlock threw at him.

The children were fast asleep. In fact, Lily was already snoring a bit and Arnold was sleeping in a weird semi sit up position, as if he was expecting to surprise John when he came back. John switched the lights off and half closed the door, watching them from a distance and feeling nostalgic. A hand snaked around his torso and Sherlock rested his chin against his shoulder as they watched the kids sleep.

"Arnold is pretty smart for his age, don't you think?" Sherlock's voice was proud and just a little bit envious.  
"I wasn't that smart when I was seven. I mean sure, I was better than the other idiots but I wasn't that good. He already plays the violin better than me."  
"You mad genius, he is just a kid. You don't have to compete with him," John said, patting Sherlock's cheek as he made to argue. He snorted and pulled out of the embrace of the taller man, dragging their tired bodies towards their room. As John slid out of his jumper, he winced at the pain in his neck. They stripped down to their boxers as John closed the door noiselessly and pulled them both on the bed.

"I told them a new story today, might have to get my old diaries out because the kids seemed to enjoy it."  
"Hmm, what story?" Sherlock murmured against John's skin, kissing right under his ear and sucking on the lobe with quiet contentment. He let his hands roam around the still strong back, the puckered scar a beautiful imperfect note in the symphony that was John Watson. And Sherlock never tired of playing him, the same notes that were home now, the music had something different every time Sherlock's fingers whispered on the bow, more strenuous than the bow of a violin, much more delicate that the most graceful of works.

"Our story," John let Sherlock's fingers caress his scar, they travelled up as they reached the point where his neck hurt and pressed gently. "Ow," John complained as the fingers started working and the detective pulled him closer for a better angle.

"Feels better?" Sherlock rubbed in low circles, kneading the shoulder and running his hands on John's back.  
"Hmm, yes, you really are a genius," John sighed as the hands travelled up his back and started playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. When John was younger, he had once commented that if he had enough money, he would just pay someone to run their hands through his hair as he slept. When Sherlock had first done it, he had made a mental note to do it every night since John enjoyed it so much, burrowing his head in Sherlock's chest and falling asleep in seconds.

"Are you asleep, John?" Sherlock's voice was low, a mere murmur, it would have been lost in the night and the silence of the house if John was asleep, barely a hint of words exhaled as softly as breathing. John rubbed his nose against Sherlock's chest and kissed it once, letting his lips rest on the pale expanse for a while before the wish to touch, to taste with his tongue took him over and he latched his mouth and licked gently. Broad palms ran down his back, touching as much as they could and ending below his waist, tracing the shape of his buttocks as Sherlock grinned, "Did I ever tell you that you have a great arse?" John replied by another lick, slower and drawn out this time.

A low hum vibrated from deep within the chest and ended with a soft sigh of his name. _John_. One syllable. The most ordinary of names, the most common of them. And yet, when Sherlock said it, it only meant one John. Him. His John. He would utter his name all the time, sometimes to call and at others, to scream or fight. But now as John ran his hands on his sides and sucked on the soft flesh, the name became something else. A wish, a prayer, a statement, sometimes a plea. The name was said a million times, in different moods, at different hours, but it always meant one thing – _Mine_.

**PS - There will be a next part, if anyone cares. ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was working in his lab, oblivious to everything except the work and then it hit him, the problem he had been working on since the past seventeen minutes. It was simple really, except for one point. Well, that could be easily confirmed. The brother was the culprit. He looked around to search for his phone and then Mike walked in with a guy. The deductions sailed effortlessly in his head, like inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide. He was an open book, except one thing – Afghanistan or Iraq. Sherlock asked for Mike's phone, knowing fully well that he didn't have it and the guy offered his own. Harry Watson, alcoholic, left his wife recently, it was such crystal clarity that he almost missed his name – John Watson. John Watson! Harry Watson!

John obviously didn't recognise him, it had been far too long, he would have made many friends, Sherlock thought bitterly. His hair was still the same shade of blonde and eyes viridian, deeper and wiser perhaps, they didn't twinkle anymore, though. They looked wary, forced calmness in them. Sherlock wanted to touch him, simply to know if his skin felt the same and the very thought startled him. Sherlock Holmes disliked touching people. He despised of it. And yet, he wanted to touch that face. _My friend_. He wanted to see the eyes move, anything human behind those pupils, anything at all. Perhaps, he had become ordinary like others. Perhaps, he had. Sherlock ached on the inside, his John had been anything but ordinary.

John obviously changed his notions, almost jarred his deductions about people and their psychology as he stood there, facing Sherlock and looking unfazed, almost interested. He had just killed a man and he looked no different. _Soldier. _And then, as he was working on his laptop after dinner, he surprised him again.

Sherlock? - JW  
Hmm?- SH  
How have you been? - JW  
What? I am not in shock! – SH  
How have you been all these years? - JW  
Locky? – JW  
Sherlock? – JW  
How did you know? – SH  
I would recognise that skull from anywhere – JW  
Oh – SH  
And your name. You didn't think I would forget, did you? – JW  
I did. It was a long time ago, anyways. Inconsequential – SH  
It wasn't inconsequential, not for me – JW  
Me neither. You didn't write to me – SH  
I called you on your birthday and Mycroft said that you didn't want to talk – JW  
Mycroft! I thought you moved on - SH  
I am so glad I met you again – JW  
You are? Why? – SH  
Erm, you were my best friend, Sherlock – JW  
But you would have had many more 'best friends' after me, surely – SH  
Friends, yes. Best friend is usually in singular. At least for us normal people ;) – JW  
Dear god, don't use those abominable things – SH  
What? – JW  
;) – SH  
This – SH  
What are you winking for? – JW  
Oh, you haven't changed one bit, John. I will see you in the flat tomorrow. Good night – SH  
:D Good night – JW  
OH I GOT IT. YOU MEANT THAT EMOTICON ROFL – JW  
Don't use that either – SH  
You kept Billy after all these years? - JW  
Yes - SH  
Why? - JW  
Science. Skulls can be pretty expensive - SH  
Okay. And? - JW  
Hmm? - SH  
Is that all? - JW  
Oh, do I have to say it! - SH  
Yes! - JW  
Okay, I was being sentimental - SH  
And? - JW  
I missed you! Fine! Now let me think! - SH  
I missed you too, Locky - JW  
:D Gn, ttyl – JW

Two months into the routine and they had settled down. It was easy really. Once you got over Sherlock's eccentricities, the man was easy to live with. Or maybe it was because John had lived in Afghanistan. Yes, maybe it was that. The main problems were really not the not-talking-for-days and the violin playing at odd hours. In fact, John was okay with those, especially the violin. Sherlock played very well when he was in the mood. There were black moods occasionally when he plucked at the strings as if they had wronged him personally, moods that couldn't be sorted with tea or Mrs Hudson's Jammie Dodgers. But when Sherlock played in the middle of the night, it was usually something peaceful, something that sounded not out of a violin but straight out of the heart he claimed didn't exist, it was usually a dirge and John would hear it in the middle of the night, at odd hours and it would calm him down. If he noticed that the music was played every time he had a nightmare, he didn't comment on it.

"What were you playing last night?" he asked next morning as he was sipping his tea and Sherlock was typing away on his laptop. No response.  
"It was beautiful." He said, knowing fully well that Sherlock was prone to flattery as much as he was averse to it. Well, not exactly flattery because that would mean that John was lying. Of course he wasn't, the dirge had been beautiful, it had broken his heart but it had been so soulful that had he not known it was Sherlock, he would have surely passed it off as a weird dream.  
"It was…uhm…a Holmes," Sherlock replied after a while. He sounded almost shy, quite unlike the surprise he had shown when John had called him amazing and brilliant for the first time.  
"What, it was your composition? Wow!" John couldn't keep the awe out of his voice; and the pride. Sherlock turned around and gave him one of those genuine smiles that John had only ever seen him give Mrs Hudson and once to his father, when he had given him some petri dishes. He sipped his tea and tried not to feel too pleased.

"You are not going anywhere, Sherlock!"  
"Have a case, John. I have a case, after so many days! I finally have a case!"

As John had come out of the shower, he had seen Sherlock fully dressed, just tying his scarf around his neck.

"Eat your breakfast and you can go wherever you want."  
"My _brain_ needs food, John, not my body!"  
"Yes, your body needs food too. You didn't even have dinner last night and given your excitement for the case, I don't think you'll be eating for a few days. So, eat your toast."  
"No."  
"Okay then. Bye."

John flopped on the sofa, a little hurt but more than that, angry. It was like living with a stubborn cat, why did he even bother? He should have learnt his lesson after two months. Even after repeated requests, fights and even agreements (in that order, precisely) the man refused to clean the kitchen table or the fridge but John never let the fights escalate. And this wasn't even about that, it was about Sherlock. Sherlock's health and his wellbeing and he was behaving as if John had some personal victory to achieve by making him eat his toast and beans. Okay, maybe he had a bit. If you could make a certain Sherlock Holmes listen to you, even if it was something as basic as not annoying the DI, it was a feat to be proud of. And yet, most of the times he did as he wanted to, with no consideration of-

"I am leaving, don't wait up," Sherlock said, breaking John's mental tirade of why-the-hell-do-I-put-up-with-this-man. He didn't reply and continued reading the same line on his newspaper. He heard the door close and sighed. Well, it was a Sherlock free day and the morning was lovely, why waste it on being angry over someone who doesn't even care. Or worry over them because they would not be eating for the next 2-3 days. Or why hope that the case was very simple so that it did the dual job of annoying Sherlock and not killing him.

As he was still reading, the door opened with a bang and a very frustrated Sherlock walked in, almost straight past the sofa. He stared at the toast on the table for almost an age before he stuffed it in his mouth uncouthly, trying to chew it as fast he could. He then washed the next one down with the tea and sat down, the look of frustration never leaving his face.

"Eat slowly or you'll choke yourself to death." John said, a bemused expression on his face as he walked towards the lanky git who was eyeing the toast as if it was the foulest thing on the planet. Sherlock scowled at him and John started laughing and the scowl deepened.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he said, already looking around for his jumper as Sherlock swallowed the last of his breakfast and nodded.  
"Be quick, John. Lestrade texted me 24 minutes ago and thanks to you, I am already late." He groused as he read John's discarded paper.

John pulled the jacket over him, unable to find the jumper (that was now stuffed under the kitchen table with a huge burn hole on its shoulder) and walked downstairs, the curiosity of the new case already brimming in his bones, Sherlock folded his paper and made to get up. The phrases "so late", "time wasted" and "why me" could be heard mumbled under his breath as he straightened his coat in the mirror over the mantelpiece. As he tried to pin down his hair, John quietly walked behind him and reached up, ruffling his hair all over the place.

"Much better, you look like Einstein now," he sniggered as Sherlock pushed his hands away but grinned nonetheless. They made their way out and got into a cab that seemed to be waiting for them and John noted that Sherlock had not bothered to put his hair right.

**PS - There are many more chapters to come. Thank you for your reviews :)**


	4. Chapter 4

"Grandpa, I am almost certain that this is a story about you and Granddad," Arnold said fidgeting with his hair. Lily was out in Mrs Hudson's apartment, playing with Mrs Turner's grandkids as Mrs Hudson went on and on about how perfect her Lily and Arnold were. The old lady, though more wrinkled than ever, still refused to wear cerise and made it a point to offer all the fashion advice she could to her great grandchild. She had even stitched Lily a few dresses and gave Arnold a handkerchief embroidered with an AH, which he proudly carried with himself throughout the holidays (such a Holmes!)

"Could it be that I am trying to misguide you into thinking that?" John replied with a twinkle in his eyes that he knew irked every Holmes that had ever lived in his presence. Arnold was no different, he wrinkled his nose as he steepled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes, giving a long sigh.

"So, what did Sherlock do, apart from solving crimes? Did gran- Sherlock have any hobbies?"  
"Oh yes, apart from wrecking the walls and the kitchen, there was one thing Sherlock liked doing – reading."  
"Yes! Me too! Do you have a story for that as well, grandpa?"  
"Get me a glass of water then while I search for it, won't you?"

Morning dribbled from the windows and the room was awash with a high coloured flush that melted into a halcyon glow as John sat under the covers with Sherlock's head on his lap. The sleepy form stirred a little and then with a yawn as wide as a cat, the detective woke up and wrapped his hand around John's waist, rubbing his face on his belly before he sank into the pillow.

"Wake up, sleepy," John marked his journal and kept it aside, sliding down the bed to take advantage of his unusually languid detective and kissed the nape of his neck softly.

"How are you feeling?" he whispered, stretching on top of Sherlock and burying his nose in the wild curls, soaking in the smell and early morning haze. Sherlock pushed his bony hips back and made a soft growling noise that made John snigger.

"No, not now. The kids will be up soon and I'm getting up too." John smiled when Sherlock tried to pull him back.  
"Get up, grumpy, it is a beautiful morning. Let's do something nice."  
"I have an idea, you should take care of your dashing still pretty young detective because he isn't feeling well. Maybe, he needs a doctor." Sherlock winked at him and John roared with laughter that culminated in a coughing fit.  
"Yes, you really do seem unwell given that you are talking like _that_ and doing _that_." John waved in the general direction of Sherlock as the detective made a face and sank back under the covers.  
"Which story is it going to be today?" Sherlock's voice came muffled and still sleepy but the slight uneasiness was unmistakeable.  
"Hmm, let me see. The Great Game, I think, yeah that one," John replied, tying his gown and looking around for his glasses. He had actually planned another story but he didn't want Sherlock to obsess over it like he knew he will, trying to remember every little detail and he knew that even a slight gap would cause him anguish.

"Oh! That's great, maybe I could tell them about the perfect way I solved those cases-"  
"No. I wasn't going to give them the detail about the case, it was more of an after case story," John winked.  
"Oh god, John. It's like that cursed blog you used to maintain all over again. You must tell them about Janus Cars, I think Arnold would quite appreciate-" John cut him short by throwing his gown at him, Sherlock was wide awake now and looked ready to go on and on about the case, his hair flying everywhere. _Einstein_, John mused.  
"I am well aware of what Arnold enjoys, thank you very much. It is for that very reason that I don't wish to share those gruesome details with him, the kids are far too young for that. No, Sherlock, those eyes don't work on me," John gave him a stern look.  
"They certainly did that day, are you going to tell them that too?" Sherlock grinned, pulling him forward and trying to tackle him. And losing.

As John made to leave, Sherlock suddenly realised that they were in the bedroom.

"John, we had slept on the couch, right?"

"Yeah, I dragged you back to the room around 4 am, it was uncomfortable there," John said, looking back.  
"I…didn't I wake up?" Sherlock was rubbing his eyes but John could practically hear his mind working on his faltering reaction time at realising that he had woken up at a different place.  
"No, you were too tired, perhaps…" he left the rest unsaid. Sherlock was a very light sleeper and he had woken up when John had pulled him off the couch, but only for a second and had gone back to sleep.

Sherlock leapt off the bed and pulled his gown around himself as he made his way into the toilet. John waited at the door for a while and heard the shower go off. He let the gown fall and shucked his pyjamas as he knocked once and got in too. Sherlock was standing with his shorts still on, his head plastered over his face.

"Hmm, what?" he said.  
"I thought maybe you do need a doctor, after all," John tried to grin but ended up grimacing.  
Sherlock gave him a small smile as John quickly got behind him and kissed him between his shoulder blades. Many things were left unsaid - the gaps in Sherlock's mind and the forced calm of John's, the water washed it away with their kisses and sighs.

**PS - Thank you everyone for the wonderful reviews, this was an abandoned story and I never intended to write beyond the kidlock bit, so thanks a lot for sticking with it :)**


	5. Chapter 5

_John? - SH  
Are you asleep?- SH  
Okay, good night - SH_

John ignored the first beep, made a mental note to put his phone on silent henceforth on the second, and made a frustrated noise as he got up on the third. _Sherlock_, he sighed. His bedside clock's hands glowed in mockery, it was 1:45 AM in the morning; he had only slept for 45 minutes.

_Now, you are awake – SH  
I'm bored – SH  
Go to sleep, Sherlock – JW  
Can't – SH  
Who is your favourite poet? – SH_

John did a double take at the last message, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes, more curious than angry now. He wrapped his gown around himself and slowly trudged downstairs. Sherlock looked as fresh as a Holmes. _Must patent that phrase, _John mused as he flopped down next to Sherlock and dropped his head in his hands.

"Headache?"  
"Hmm."  
"I'm sorry, I- go back to sleep, we will talk tomorrow," Sherlock said, closing whatever book he had open in his lap, stretching his legs like an overgrown cat.  
"No, it's alright. Why did you ask? Since it is almost 2 am, I'm guessing you forgot the time and the fact that I wasn't around." John looked up to find Sherlock smiling at him, apologetically. He grinned back.

"It was just…I am reading John Keats and really, has there ever been a more eloquent man? I don't know why people like Wordsworth. His poetry is certainly nice words put together but it is so grandiloquent…and hollow. It's like he's trying too hard, too hard to be called a poet. An artist," Sherlock's voice sounded breathless with frustration as he walked around the room, robe swishing behind him.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Many people would disagree with you. I mean, Keats certainly is brilliant but Wordsworth is great, in his own way." John saw the grimace before it actually appeared and gave a small laugh. _So readable, the supposed mystery that was Sherlock Holmes._

"Listen to this and tell me how Wordsworth can be better than this,

_Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,_

_Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;_

_Conspiring with him how to load and bless_

_With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;_

John closed his eyes and let the words wash over him. How long had it been since anyone had read to him? Sherlock's voice took him back to nights spent under the stars, his head in his grandfather's lap as he read him a bedtime story, something about a man with a wooden leg who was always hungry. He hummed in appreciation as Sherlock continued,

_To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,_

_And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;_

_To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells_

_With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,_

_And still more, later flowers for the bees,_

_Until they think warm days will never cease,_

_For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells._

Sherlock's voice had taken a different tone, it sounded deeper or had it always been like that? Words almost floating out of his mouth on their own accord, consonants and vowels mere tools that he wrapped around each other and allowed to float in the air. John's very lungs seemed to vibrate with the humming of the bees and he could see the summers and the springs weave in and out of each other in quiet abandon. John lifted the watering can as his grandfather smiled from behind his glasses, urging him on. The can was big, bigger than anything John had ever lifted but he wanted to do it, to see the water disappear magically as it touched the soil and the leaves groaned in the hot summer, drinking it all up. He liked to think that tomorrow, when the leaves almost look like they are singing with green shoots, it would be because he watered them. It was comforting, doing this.

_Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?_

_Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find_

_Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,_

_Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;_

_Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,_

_Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook_

_Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:_

_And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep_

_Steady thy laden head across a brook;_

_Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,_

_Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours._

John let his head fall back on the cushions as the walls reverberated with that voice, it had stopped being poetry, it had stopped being words and adjectives and nouns. The verses had a life of their own when Sherlock seemed to breathe them out, they had touched something and become alive as they lifted off the pages and bookmarked themselves around John, closing in on him as friends long lost and forgotten, delicate and soft as they touched his forehead and settled behind his eyes and he could see them. He could see the words and the field of endless poppies, it looked like the evening sun had burst out and immersed the golden lands. Like there would never be anything to not sing about, John felt light as a feather as his grandfather lifted him up and put him on his shoulders, singing about something John knew not because that voice was the same voice he was hearing right now. Different tone and pitch, perhaps but the same honesty that thrummed in their bones, passion flowed redder than the long line of poppies as nostalgia crept between John's toes and warmed them, the places he had long forgotten about, the roads he had never walked on tickled his soles.

_Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?_

_Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—_

John felt Sherlock settling next to him and realised that he had been stretched across the couch. As he made to get up, a warm hand settled on his knee and pulled his feet up on its lap, fingers gently pinching the webbing between his toes as John gave a small groan of satisfaction and got a soft chuckle in return.

_While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,_

_And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;_

_Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn_

_Among the river sallows, borne aloft_

_Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;_

_And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;_

_Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft_

_The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;_

_And gathering swallows twitter in the skies._

And if the verses had ended, John didn't know they had because he could still hear them, they played around in a symphony of childhood memories, unfettered by the problems of adulthood, running liberated like a small boy who believed in everything and anything, whose viridian gaze had no shadows of dying soldiers and whose skin didn't prickle with nightmarish uneasiness in warmer months. It was a child who didn't look up for bullets when a bird flapped its wings near him, a child who sat with reckless abandon on his grandfather's shoulders and thought that this was the highest he would ever reach.

"Your voice…it is like his. I can almost feel his gaze on me, Sherlock. His warm, slightly broken voice fills me right now as he sings not caring about anything in the world. He died and I grew up, yet I never heard anyone so content with their life, not happy but actually satisfied with what they had done, with what they had achieved, accepting of their mistakes and comforted by the fact that they had lived. And-" Long fingers caressed his face and wiped the tears he wasn't even aware of. It had been years, ages since he had cried. He let himself go, just this once.

This was home, this was Sherlock and it was okay. And so he cried and he let the hands wipe the tears away as Sherlock got up and picked the violin, playing something deep and happy. Not happy, something…grieving and yet, not sorrowful. It was wise and it was nothing John had ever heard and he was sure no one had either, not even Sherlock.

The strings strained under the bow as it glided over them, skin on skin, trusting and knowing what was done, easeful and comfortable like silence between them as John let Sherlock put him to sleep.

**PS - I am in love with the idea of Sherlock reading to John and I love Keats, so, this happened. **


	6. Chapter 6

"John…I don't remember any of that," Sherlock's voice sounded small and lost as John closed the door and the kids slept on. Arnold was still trying not to deduce without all the facts and Lily would usually fall asleep in the middle of the story. Sherlock never sat with them when the bedtime session began, he would usually just read his book or play the violin or simply work on something or the other. Sometimes, they got late night visitors, people with problems and Sherlock solved them all without a single complaint of them being boring or tedious. Most of the times, he didn't even have to move to give them the exact thing they were looking for. And obviously, _the Holmes pride_, he never took any payment for what he did and so, people left them pies and cakes and expensive bottles of wine. But every day, when John ended the story, he found Sherlock sitting outside the room, leaning against the wall or simply stretched across the stairs.

"It's nothing, love," John said, his hand in the small of Sherlock's back as they made their way towards the couch. The room was in an utter state of chaos and not the usual chaos John was used to, not the organised clutter. Slowly, in the last few years, the organised clutter had become a din of things thrown haphazardly together. Billy was somewhere under the pile of newspapers and Sherlock's correspondence, still pretty strong, had been found in the butter dish that morning by John.

"It isn't nothing, it is…everything to me. My mind palace is…closing in. When I start thinking, I feel as if my lungs are collapsing with the information, it's almost difficult to breathe! How can I not remember that story? It is obviously something important to you, no don't deny it John, you almost choked up narrating it, I know it is important to you. I could not have deleted it. I…don't even remember that John Keats is my favourite poet, I don't even recognise the name. John…" Sherlock fisted his hand in his hair and John couldn't keep help the tears as his heart crashed upon itself, a brilliant mind falling to pieces, rusted by time, eaten and consumed bit by bit, so slow and painful to look at and John could not even begin to comprehend how painful it was for Sherlock.

He pulled him in his arms, hands steady around his shoulders as he stroked his face gently, not wiping the tears away, neither Sherlock's, nor his own. They sat there huddled in the dying night, the embers of the fire flickered in their eyes as their breaths calmed down into feeble chimes, rattling against the forlorn sounds of the sparse traffic, the distant sound of life moving on.

He lowered Sherlock's head on his lap and pulled a cushion under him, softly touching his lips to his forehead, his thumb sweeping across the cheeks and wiping the tears away while his own dried on his face. There was nothing he could do but hold on to Sherlock as he choked a sob and tried to steady himself. John kissed his temple, then the shell of his ear as he whispered –

_When I have fears that I may cease to be  
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,  
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,  
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;_

_Sherlock ran along the corridors of his palace, they seemed to ripple under his feet, diverging into brightly lit corridors he had never seen; there were pits on the wooden floors, craters the size of his bathtub. And then, there was a familiar voice in his head, it floated above all the commotion, seemed to flit in and out of the walls of his mind as it began filling in the craters, beckoning him towards the room on his right. The room was small but it had a long line of shelves and shelves of books, running along till his vision could follow the soft azure glow they seemed to be emitting. His feet followed the voice that murmured gently, consoling him and blocking out the noise outside the room, he reached the last row and there, he picked up a dusty cover of a brown book, not bound but pieces of parchment stuck together with ease, stuffed in the moleskin cover of his father's making, an ornate H glinting shyly along the edge._

_And Sherlock read – _

_When I behold, upon the night's starred face,  
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,  
And think that I may never live to trace  
their shadows with the magic hand of chance;_

The ceiling of the library blew up, dissolving into small fragments until Van Gogh's starry sky beamed at him, the blue somewhat muffled into silence and the yellows a tad too bright, there were smoke clouds in the distance that he had never seen before. They seemed to have superimposed themselves on the landscape of the sky, not looking out of place as the soft voice seemed to rush inside them and settle with a sound quieter than the rustle of a cloak.

Sherlock looked down at his hands and there was the torn piece of parchment, the last words just fading away, handwritten with letters that seemed to flee from his vision. He read as quickly as he could,

_And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,  
That I shall never look upon thee more,  
Never have relish in the fairy power  
Of unreflecting love—_

And Sherlock opened his eyes to find himself tucked in John's chest, the couch groaning under their familiar weight as he let a gentle scarred palm soothe the choking sobs in his chest, hushing him into sleep and whispering –

_Then on the shore_ _of the wide world I stand alone,  
and think, till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink._

As John tucked him closer, enveloping himself around Sherlock, the soft worn jumper caressing his cheek, Sherlock realised for the hundredth time that John would always be there, after time ended and before it began, next to him – his best friend, companion, lover, protecting him from everything, bringing him back from every fall, making him want to return home. Even after so many years, the idea of wanting someone with such vulnerability scared him, of being so open to hurt, of being so dependable on someone; and yet he would do this again and again for this one man who was snoring gently around him, the sound echoing in his ribs as Sherlock tucked his cold hands inside John's favourite jumper and closed his eyes, the crashing shelves another forgotten memory.

**PS - Thank you for reading and for leaving reviews, they keep me going.**  
**xx**  
**Meow**


	7. Chapter 7

After being strapped to a bomb and brushing past death, their ride back home was quiet and strained. Something had shifted, something very big had wedged itself out of them and there was a wide gap that none of them knew what to do with. Sherlock retracted to the far corner of the cab, trying to melt against the door, the cogs of his mind turning with so much sound that John realised what Sherlock had meant when he had told Lestrade off for thinking too loudly. His left knee had a nervous twitch, from excitement or adrenaline, John didn't know.

John was in such a daze himself, having come so close to death and escaped. His grip tightened almost painfully against his own knee, the rush of pain welcome and so alive that he had to close his eyes to clear his head. The experience in Afghanistan had almost killed him but even when he was on the ground, the desert sand in his nose and the smell of his own dried blood on his chapped lips, it had been serene in a way. John had been peaceful, calm as he saw death in the eye. Not today, though. He hadn't been scared of death, or Moriarty, he had been scared for Sherlock, for the way the red dots danced on his chest. Yes, he had been scared because back in Afghanistan, he had nothing to lose. And, well, now he did.

When he had seen Sherlock as he walked out the door, an unfamiliar emotion on his face – fear, John had felt a little hurt and amazed at how much it transformed those sharp features, his eyes had been wide with a hint of betrayal and John knew about the blind trust that he shook with and still held on to as he looked around trying to make sense. And John was rewarded with that look once more, mingled with surprise when he decided to give Sherlock a chance to run. He had known that Sherlock wouldn't but that wasn't why he did it. He did it because, at that one moment when it seemed that they would both die here, there was this crystal clarity in his mind. The world needed Sherlock and more than that, he needed Sherlock to live. It wasn't an expression of love, it wasn't some gallant sacrifice of life on his behalf but it was a statement so humbling, something that spoke volumes about their relationship so much that it overwhelmed him. When Moriarty had come back, they had known, one look from Sherlock and they had both known that this was it, after all the chases and all the laughs, this is how they were going to die. Moriarty's eyes were ecstatic with the prospect of it, he was insane, insanely brilliant perhaps but insane nonetheless, and John couldn't help but feel pity for the man. Sherlock had always been a bit out of touch with his emotions but he had never been inhuman and it gladdened him to be here, to witness this thing and die feeling sorry, not for himself, but for Moriarty.

As things took an unexpected turn and they lived, the very air seemed apprehensive. John wasn't hurt about the look of pain in his eyes, but he knew that he would never have believed Sherlock to be the criminal, not even for a second has their positions been reversed. It made him ache a little, to think about the way Sherlock took people, perhaps he was justified in his mistrust, maybe he was justified in the way he treated everyone. The world treated him with nothing but contempt, why should he give back what he never got. The logic of the entire thing was obviously skewed but as John saw the shadow of Sherlock's profile, saw his foot move restlessly, his entire being thrumming with impatience and nervousness, he couldn't help but feel angry at everyone and everything. He moved closer to him and put his hand on the knee, giving it a slight squeeze, trying to put a million words as the face turned and the greys met the blues, a child's apprehension to an old man's regrets etched as plain as daylight when John gave him a small smile that he could only return with a shrug.

When they reached home, Sherlock got out of the cab and headed straight to his room while John sat on the couch and flicked through the telly, enjoying the white noise and thinking. Thinking about the warmth as he rested his hand on the knee and the jitters stopped, thinking about the last time Sherlock had touched anyone, hugged someone or had been hugged by someone. John was a touch person, especially as a doctor, a hug or a simple pat on the back, things like holding hands came to him as second nature.

Reminiscing about the months gone by, he remembered how Sherlock was so different from him in this aspect; he maintained a distance from everyone. John could only think of Mrs Hudson as the person he let ruffle his hair or gave an occasional peck on the cheek when he was excited about a case. Little touches when he passed on the cup and their fingers brushed against each other. Sherlock had almost dropped the tea the first time it had happened but slowly, he had eased into it. And John welcomed the unhurried touches, strange and rare from Sherlock, like when they would sit on the couch and Sherlock would slowly and stealthily try to wriggle his cold feet under John's thighs until John lifted them a bit and he froze for a second before burrowing them in; the occasional pat on the shoulder, in sarcasm mostly, but a touch nonetheless.

John looked up to see that it was almost 5 am, still dark outside but he felt sleepy and exhausted from the activities of the day, the adrenaline dying down to leave behind sore muscles and tiredness. As he walked past Sherlock's room, he thought he heard a sound, faint movement. Sherlock could be so quiet sometimes that he would almost forget that the man was in the same house and as unusual as it was for him to be quiet, John still missed the energy and the noise that seemed to follow Sherlock everywhere. He stood there, lost in thought and pushed the door, just to check on him.

Sherlock had his back towards him and he was shirtless, the covers drawn up to his waist but he was awake, John could tell that because when he walked in, he saw him tense a little. John stared at him, thinking about his reasons for checking on Sherlock. _I thought I'd see if you were okay after the stressful events of the night._ It sounded idiotic even in his head, so he stuck with the best one.

"Not asleep yet, Sherlock. I thought you'd be out cold after the case," he sat at the edge of the bed as no response came. Sherlock's back was dotted with freckles and there was a mole on the side of his neck, otherwise his body was as perfect as everything about him. He looked like a marble tombstone, lying there frozen, unmoving, untouched.

"Sarah and I broke up," he said, his voice sounding louder than he intended to. Sherlock turned around and looked up at him, not knowing what to do.  
"I am not sad or anything, I don't really think I liked her in that way, we didn't really have a future," John said, surprised at the fact that he had not even realised about it the entire evening; all the running and the bombs and everything, had completely wiped it out of his mind. He didn't even know what he felt for her was nothing but…habit. He hadn't known about it until he had said it to Sherlock a few seconds ago.  
"Did she get tired of…this?" Sherlock said, his voice very low, almost inaudible.  
"I guess, yeah," he shrugged.

"John?" Sherlock turned his face away from him and said something that John couldn't hear.  
"Didn't catch that," he leaned in and got a whiff of Sherlock's cologne and his own fragrance, something musky and very Sherlock, plus his bergamot shampoo. John was captivated by the play of light on his midnight black curls and he bent down to kiss the pale shoulder.

* * *

_"Did they have sex, granddad?" Arnold asked, sounding terribly bored with the story as John spluttered and heard a small chuckled outside the room.  
"No, stupid, then Sherlock told John that he loved him. Right, grandpa" Lily, on the other hand, had stayed up for this one, rolling her eyes at Arnold.  
"Yes, Lily is correct," John enjoyed watching Arnold make a face.  
"It's too quick, is this exactly what happened, Grandpa?" John tried to keep his face as flat as possible when he nodded in confirmation and Lily smiled widely._

_As he put them to bed and got out, he saw Sherlock sitting there on the stairs, beaming._

_"You should have told them the exact story, John. Arnold is smart, he could take it," he sniggered as John glowered at him and gave him a peck on the nose.  
"Come to bed, I'll tell you the entire story" John shucked his jumper as they landed softly on the bed and Sherlock snuggled closer, as excited as the kids in the next room. _

**PS - Thank you for all your wonderful reviews. Updates would be a bit slower, for those of you who care :)**

**xoxo  
Meow**


	8. Chapter 8

"John?" Sherlock turned his face away from him and said something that John couldn't hear.  
"Didn't catch that," he leaned in and got a whiff of Sherlock's cologne and his own fragrance, something musky and very Sherlock, plus his bergamot shampoo. John was captivated by the play of light on his midnight black curls, wanting to touch them, to watch his fingers disappear in them as he felt them slide through his fingers.  
"I thought I'd lose you."

John touched his shoulder and couldn't help but respond to the shiver that ran through the body under him, it was unexpectedly warm as John could see that his touch had left behind a trail of gooseflesh. He leaned in and whispered, "But you didn't, did you? It's fine." The seconds seemed frozen as Sherlock nodded against the pillow and John seemed mesmerized by the formation of freckles, he could draw an Ursa Major and laughed to himself as he remembered watching that movie with an old girlfriend, _Serendipity_.

He withdrew his hand and made to get up when he heard him. Just a word, it could have been a sigh- _Stay. _It wasn't a command or a plea, just a question, a statement seeking comfort. _You are alive, we are alive. It has passed. _And he did, he stayed and let Sherlock talk, let fears become words and fly away.

_Touch me, please._ John removed his shirt and let his hands run over the lean bicep, Sherlock's back towards him still as he leaned in and buried his nose in the nape, letting his breath ghost over the touch starved skin that seemed to be sighing with him. John just let the entirety of his front melt into that slim back, bringing his arms to hold him as close as he could. Sherlock let the lips ghost over his flesh, he didn't move and let John's slightly rough palms run down his arm as he held them for a while and cloaked Sherlock in his skin. And Sherlock wanted to turn around and bury himself in his lungs, to let go of everything and wear John around him, to leave his own skin and walk inside John. And settle. It felt good, like he had been waiting for this, like wanting something for so long and when you finally get it, you are too overwhelmed for words, and yet he wanted to talk.

"When I saw you walk out-" he began but John shushed him, turning his around and cupping his face in his hands, "it's all fine, like I said," he murmured against his temple, kissing it once, twice. Sherlock's hand rested limply against his own sides and as John began running his fingers through his scalp, he brought Sherlock's hands to rest against his waist, meeting his eyes. Sherlock was too tired for anything, for inspection of that scar that he wanted to taste with his tongue, for that smell of John he wanted to drown in and breathe inside his lungs, keep safe for when he lost his mind. He wanted to sit next to his beating heart and count himself to sleep, and that's what he did. He couldn't help but run his hands over the broad back and count as he ran his thumb down the spine and John mimicked his movements. His own skin refused to calm, to not ripple with shivers every time John found a patch of flesh he hadn't touched. It seemed to make John happy because he sighed every time Sherlock moaned or stifled one, with every inch of control he lost, he was rewarded with a kiss on his forehead or his eyes or a chuckle from John as he tried to drape himself completely around him.

"You are perfect," he whispered against John's chest, not kissing but just touching his lips to the skin, drinking John in. He was up to the brim in John and everything around him, every little fear from the night, all the broken threads in his head, they seemed to not matter in that moment. If he was Keats, he would have written verses upon verses on John's skin alone and not tire of it.

"I know you doubted me, even if for a second but what I saw tonight wasn't something I ever expected to see in your eyes, you doubted yourself. You doubted yourself before you doubted me and that is the best I could ever ask for. I don't know if you've ever been in love, Sherlock but perfection is such a big sham. Eternal love doesn't exist and I've met so many women, so ideal in their perfection that it needled at my senses, enough for me to back off or do something that would not make it work. I know how imperfect things are, maybe that is the reason why I…like you." He planted another kiss on the forehead, knowing how hopelessly he had been in love with this man, maybe it had been platonic before, who cares.

"Do you love me, John?" Sherlock said, looking up with genuine curiosity in his eyes.  
"Yes, I do, I've always loved you."  
"Good."  
"That's all?"  
"Yeah, good night."  
"Good night, Locky."  
"Don't call me that."  
"Good night, love?"  
"I like that, but not in front of other people!"  
"Yeah, alright. Mood killer."  
"The best of killers, those."  
"Go to sleep, Sherlock."  
"Hmm."

When they woke up next morning, Sherlock had scrawled a small note on John's open message box –

Me too – SH

_"I was scared, I deserved a blow job at the least." Sherlock still used the same bergamot shampoo that cost more than John's jumpers._

_John had memorised all those freckles, every constellation that could be formed on the starry back, he had charted them in his mind and he knew the sounds Sherlock made like his own heartbeat. As he gently pushed his thigh between the legs of an unaware detective pulling a lone thread of his jumper, he was rewarded with a broken moan, a surprised one that had been too long inside Sherlock. Hell, John had almost forgotten about it._

_"Maybe I can give you one right now, Locky." He pushed his hand up the t-shirt, wrinkled flesh under the same scarred palm._

_"Don't call me that." Sherlock's whisper was lost in his own sounds._

_And some things never changed. Thank god they didn't. _

**PS - Sorry for the slow updates, life's caught up with me.**

**xoxo  
Meow**


	9. Chapter 9

"We're going to Angelo's." John said as Sherlock examined the top of the cabbie's seat with his pocket magnifier and hummed his approval, intrigued by the dust pattern.  
"It…erm, it's a date, Sherlock," and never had John been more awkward saying those words because Sherlock's head snapped towards him and deciding that John was much more worthy of scrutiny. He put his magnifier inside his coat pocket and surveyed him with amusement crinkling the corner of his eyes.  
"Okay, why are you so…"  
"I am not so anything."  
"Yes, you are. Why are you nervous? Considering you have been on so many dates, I should be nervous because this is my first."

Sherlock smiled and for a change, paid the cabbie as they got inside Angelo's and were smothered in a bone crushing hug from a very animated Angelo who had, even after repeated insistence from John, put too much red in the restaurant and an entire corner had been reserved for the "couple of the evening". As soon as John escaped the hug and saw the state of the place, he wanted the ground to part and take him in.

"Angelo! I said one flower on the table!" John spluttered in indignation as Sherlock chuckled and took his elbow, guiding him towards their usual table.  
"When he wasn't my date, you wanted to burn us with candles and what-not. Now that it is one, you haven't even put a stub of it!" John rubbed his face as Angelo shouted orders for a candle and wine.  
"I am so sorry, Sherlock. It wasn't supposed to be so…I don't even know what this is!" John mumbled, scowling.  
"It's fine, John. You didn't even have to do this," Sherlock let his hand rest on John's and examined his fingernails and knuckles, unable to stop himself from declaring certain recently habits of John and how a few of them had changed since they had started living together.

Their orders arrived as John was sipping his wine, comfortable in the silence between them.  
"I know this is weird for you but I wanted to do it properly, erm, you know…" he finished lamely and mentally kicked himself.  
"I know and I am enjoying myself, really, I am. Mainly because you didn't go out of the way and we came here, this is nice. Thank you," he picked on his food and when he looked up, John was glaring at him, so he took a bite and John went back to his own food.

"We must be the first couple to have had sex before the first date." Sherlock said, linking his arms with John as they walked back home.  
"We haven't had sex, per se. That was…not sex." John grinned, pulling his closer.  
"It was, wasn't it? There were genitals involved." John looked around to check if anyone had heard them and sighed, "There is more to sex than that. That was just…frotting. No…naked skin on skin," he smirked.  
"Well, there was naked skin on skin _that_ night!"  
"But no genitals were "involved". Oh god, change the topic." John hushed him as he saw Sherlock preparing himself for another counter-argument.

"So, how was your first date?"  
"Nice, but I suppose, it isn't over yet."  
"It isn't?"  
"No."  
"Sherlock…"

They had reached 221B, Sherlock pulled his collar up and John rolled his eyes as they got in the flat. Well, to say that he was surprised would be an understatement because John simply stood there, gaping, his mind repeatedly telling him that they had walked inside the wrong flat. The flat was awash with candles, so many candles, and the couch had been pushed back to make room for pillows and a bottle of wine in the middle of the room.

"I googled it," Sherlock looked nervous, trying to gauge John's reaction. Well, if John were truthful, he would have been half horrified and half embarrassed had someone else done this for him but coming from Sherlock, this seemed the best thing a guy could ever ask for. If he were to guess Sherlock's first date choices, he would have predicted it to be the lab or some live surgery. But not this, never this.

"Yes, this is not it, come on," he shucked his shoes and removed his coat, pulling the covers aside and sitting cross legged next to a space that was presumably for John. John smiled and got in, excited at what was to come.  
"This was Mrs Hudson's idea, by the way. But _this _was mine," saying which, he flicked the switch and got up to start the DVD. John gasped as Sara Thomas and Jonathan Trager appeared on the screen.  
"Serendipity! How did you know?"  
"I worked it out, I'm smart and everything," Sherlock gave John a cheeky wink, pulling him closer and resting his chin on top of his head. The evening was spent by Sherlock muttering about how idiotic Sara was to believe in such "nonsense" but when John kissed him on the cheek and snuggled closer, he shut up for the entire evening, adding that he should have chosen Casino Royale instead and getting an angry "Sherlock! Let me watch!" from John.

When Sara and Jonathan kissed in the end, John looked up and for once, he didn't care if he looked mawkish or if it was overtly corny to kiss right now. Sherlock was looking at the screen with feigned interest when John gave him a small kiss on his chin and he looked down, surprised.

"I love you, thank you for this."  
"Hmm, can we watch James Bond, next time?"  
"I was thinking about making you watch _If Only._"  
_"_…"  
"I'm kidding, Sherlock!"  
"John, we haven't kissed so far."  
"Hmm, now would be a great time to begin then," saying which John pulled him down and kissed him. It was, in no way, a perfect first kiss. Their noses bumped as they turned their head in the same direction and then, there were more teeth but after a few tries, they got it.

_And John let Sherlock rest his lips on John's, feeling, playing with the pressure, experimenting and he let him. When Sherlock was done, he stopped for a few seconds, unsure where to go from there, so John traced the cupid bow with his tongue and was rewarded with a surprised gasp from Sherlock who started sucking on his lower lip, wedging it between his own as John got to listen to the most exquisite of moaning sounds he had ever heard Sherlock make. He was lowered onto a pillow and before Sherlock knew it, John flipped them over, straddling him as he began a fresh assault on the wonderfully kiss swollen lips of a very debauched detective. He nudged his mouth open with his tongue and delved right in, running it on the back of his teeth, teaching more than exploring and Sherlock picked it up quickly, sucking on John's tongue and moving his hips before he let him go and explored his mouth with such sweet patience that John tugged at his hair to remind him to breathe. It went on, the exploration, the roof of the mouth was tickled and the tastes were drafted into a bright corner of the mind palace, the softness of the tongue and the plush lips were bitten and licked soothingly until Sherlock let go and John collapsed on top of him, his head on Sherlock's chest, pants straining. _

Sherlock's phone beeped and he broke the moment to run towards the laptop, forgetting everything with what John guessed it to be the rush of a new case. He stood there, feeling weird, being jolted back to reality.

"John?"  
"Hmm," he replied, not looking up and staring at the unopened bottle of wine.  
"Case date?" he asked it with such innocence that John had to smile. Nothing had to change between them, except maybe more kissing and love making. He liked it this way and would always want it to stay the same. He nodded, getting up and grabbing his coat, the thrill of a new chase in Sherlock's eyes rubbing off on him.

**PS - Sorry for the slow updates. Let me know if you liked it :)**

**xoxo**  
**Meow**


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